Archie’s Quill is Mightier Than the Hypocrite’s Sword – That’s Why His Style is Ripped Off By Rupert – And By Hot Birds and Punters He’s So Adored


The Australian newspaper, our only national tabloid hidden inside a broadsheet, has today taken the somewhat extraordinary step of publishing the response of its parent company Nationwide News Pty Ltd (it used to be News Ltd not that long ago, but after Rupert’s crew got caught breaking the law by hacking into dead peoples phones Jerry Hall’s hubby quickly phoenixed the old company to avoid the million dollar penalties) to the complaint an aggrieved Australian woman has made to the Human Rights Commission about the publication of a highly offensive cartoon penned by the fish and chips wrappers resident redneck doodler Bill Leak.

Of course it goes without saying that the newpaper’s newfound willingness to publish legal documents prior to their consideration by the recipient party has been inspired by this website’s cutting-edge practice of fighting fire with fire and promoting free speech in the face of firestorms launched by long-lunching lawyers. We’ve been doing it for donkey’s years, and it’s no coincidence or accident of fate that we did it to the author of Rupert’s right-wing rag’s response to the Human Rights Commission himself, a most aptly named chap called Quill.



I suppose we should be flattered – after all imitation is the most sincere form of it – but thanks to bloody Doubting Thomas’s dud tips we did out arse on the punt at the Valley last night and are desperate to build a quick bank to chuck on Winx in the Cox Plate, so we’ve called in the copyright lawyers to explore whether we can squeeze another five figure cash sum out of the old lecher (Rupert not Quill) prior to the ninth race this afternoon.

Speaking of race, you’ve just gotta take a Captain Cook at the totally gratuitous and irrelevant sledge Murdoch’s bovver boys have thrown at the Federal Race Discrimination Commissioner Tim Soutphommasane, a French-born and south-west Sydney raised lad who has turned out to be a hell of a fine Australian despite having once spent more time than any human should – the upper limit being 5 seconds – with everyone’s favourite former Prime Minister Kev the Rat Rudd.

It’s his time working as a research assistant for the Rat, and his period of employment as a speechwriter for the deeply odd – he once read a book about the American Civil War while sitting in the best seats in the house at a footy grand final – and extraordinarily egotistical former elected NSW Premier and factionally appointed Senator Bob ‘grease the donors wheels and kiss Israel’s arse’ Carr.

Now in the deep distant days of my youth – they ended last Sunday when the eldest fruit of the loins told me she was up the duff – I’d had a bit to do with both of these alleged (by themselves) intellectual giants, and let me tell you something for free I wouldn’t pay two cents to spend another second with either.

But what on earth does the fact that Commissioner Soutphommasane once worked for the pair of clowns have to do with the price of eggs when it comes to an individual punter’s complaint about a cartoon?

Bloody nothing, that’s what. It’s just a cheap shot thrown at a bloke while he has his guard down, and if Murdoch’s mashers tried the same tactic in a court of law they would be slapped around the head for contempt, and this type of king-hit, low-blow 1-2 combination does no credit at all to those that delivered it, and I include my failed tipster mate Doubting in that spray.

It’s also bloody moronic, and displays an appalling ingnorance of Australian political history, for the ALP was for almost a century the number one spruiker of the White Australia policy and until Gough stuck his posh snout in the trough and killed off forever the Chifley-esque dreams of the working punter becoming PM the ALP were probably the First Australian’s third worst enemy, a nose and a short head behind the monarchy and the squatter with a shotgun, 100 rounds of ammunition, police and judicial protection, a hard on, and a belly full of grog.

Let’s however descend down the rabbit hole with Rupert and Doubting, and follow the inference laid out by their yuppie lawyer boy Quill the Dill (QTD)- he won’t mind me calling him that I’m sure, what with being a passionate advocate of free speech and all why the hell would he? – for the whole world to see over their cereal this morning and assume that his read between the lines reckoning about imaginary conflicts of interest held by one-time employees of a Labor Party elected official on human rights complaints  is correct.

I admit that it’s a bit of a stretch of reason given that the current PM Magnificent Mal, who’s a supporter of the present anti-race hate legislation, is actually a Liberal just in case Rupert’s rude boys had forgotten, but you only need to cast your mind back to the Malaysian Solution and the leap of imagination becomes easy.

Doubting himself is the first pin to fall. Whatever millions he didn’t inherit or marry into were made pumping out positive spin for the fracking earthquake-inducing Coal Seam Gas industry, so under the QTD rules he’s barred forever from reporting on all things mining. Sh*t, the poor bugger won’t be able to sit by the pool and take pot-shots at Clive Palmer anymore, so what the hell is the man supposed to do? Throw himself into a bit of investigative journalism or something? It’s a bloody cruel world isn’t it?

Turgid and twisted opinion piece spinner Grace Collier is out of industrial relations – she once worked for a union.

Richo’s gone as well: there’s no more political commentary for the former Offset Alpine shareholder, and I guess given what we know, what we don’t, and what Richo won’t tell us he better be banned from writing about arson, insider trading and fires too.


Doubting’s bosom buddy Andrew Bolt’s cactus. Believe it or not he worked on two election campaigns for Hawkey, which says more about Hawke’s politics than it does Bolt’s, but is a disqualifying offence nevertheless.

Gerard Henderson’s gonzo. He has been closely tied to the Liberal Party for years, and given the chains that bind him to the Vatican he’s banned from writing about moral and religious issues too. So’s Miranda Devine, a papal devotee and former board member of the Opus Dei nursery named Campion College, and Tess Livingstone cops a life ban for writing kiddy-fiddler cover-up king George Pell’s biography.

Judith Sloan, Peter Van Onselen and Christian Kerr are out – Liberal Party staffers or board appointments – and Arthur Sinodinis walks the plank with the.

Gary Johns is gone, so are Troy Bramston and John Black – dirty Laborites the trio – and I could go on forever but I think I’ve made my point, and anyway if I don’t pull up straight away sportsfans soon  there will be no journalists or columnists left to steer the ‘independent and impartial’ national News flagship.

I’ve got one more piece of bad news before I go to bed though: Rampaging Rupert’s going to have to hire some new raw legal recruit to re-write his mob’s submission to the HRC, because his present bloke has, according to his own rules, a slight problem.

You see, Justin Quill used to be a lawyer for the Labor Party.

It’s dead set mightier than the sword isn’t it sportsfans?

Happy Saturday, and may the Gods of the punt shine on you always.



So Just Who Are These Unscrupulous Arseholes That Tow a Pregnant Girl and Her Mothers Cars Away From Ascot? – The Racketeers Running the Tow and Gimme the Dough Show on Racecourse Road Get Outed and Totally Exposed

There are three layers of money makers complicit in the massive con-job being pulled on punters who have the misfortune to return to their vehicle in a the car park in Brisbane’s Ascot Village shopping block at 160 Racecourse Road in the state’s central horse-racing hamlet just to the north and down the hill from Hamilton, fittingly the one time home to a fellow fraudster named Chrissie Boy Skase.

The first layer of the cartel are the shopkeepers. They don’t employ the tow-truck outlaws who flog your Fords and pinch your Pulsars but they pay their rent to those who do, and know full well what’s going on before they hand over their fortnightly tariff to the Sultana Bran exporting Doctor dealing out the dough to the devil’s cowboys carrying a six-barrel hoist and wearing a ten-gallon winch with ‘I’m a lowlife c*nt’ burned into its brim.

We won’t name and shame the retailers just right now, but just like Kate Winslet’s turn a blind eye Nazi harlot Hanna character in the excellent movie The Reader, their day of reckoning awaits and is coming at them like a Tokyo bullet train.

We will name the Doctor however, for this cash-craving capitalist who so selfishly wants to build a huge hotel on the corner-block suburban site is the one who signs the contracts with the car rustlers, gives them carte blanche to perv on young birds through his surveillance cameras, and in all probability cops a backhanders from the towing company capo for his trouble.

The charmer’s name is Sharma, and I’m a poet and I don’t even know it.


Dr Pravendra Sharma of number 6 Chateau Street in beautiful downtown Carseldine (pictured above) to be precise, just across the road from Wimbledon winner Ashley Cooper’s tennis court complex.

The good doctor, whose wife Anita – also a doctor – owns the Platinum Medical Centre in Chermside, is the boss cocky of probably the most appropriately named company in Queensland.

It called – sit down before you read it – GIPS, and he and it own the pox-ridden little car park that in his dreams Sharma transforms into skyscraping towers, but when his eyes are open but deliberately looking the other way makes a motza for he and his car thieving cohorts through towing pregnant wide-eyed innocent’s cars away.


Sharma, whose business interests extend from funding the tow-truck extortion racket to exporting Austrlian (sic) Sultana Bran (which I assume is cereal eaten by cartographers who draw maps of the wide brown land sans Tassie) is not I can attest the world’s most honest chap, because I gave him a tingle on the mobile dog and bone last night while I was sitting in the rental car watching through his window, and bugger me dead if I didn’t see him pick up the walkabout home phone and move his lips as he told me that Pravendra Sharma wasn’t home!

It’s bloody lucky I’m a fast learner when it comes to surveillance of unsuspecting punters and learnt a quick lesson from him this arvo about how to turn a fish-eyed camera into collateral isn’t it, cos I wouldn’t have the footage and the recordings to prove he’s a liar if he hadn’t taught me the sneaky tricks of the scum sucker’s trade.

The upshot though is that Sharma’s mendacity has cost him the opportunity to offer up his side of the tow and dough car park trade, and old Pravendra has no-one to blame but himself and his medical sausage factory owning missus, who is featured on the film standing next to him as he spun me his ‘he not here senor’ bulldust and figures prominently on the audio offering him a piece or two of advice, which my Hindi-speaking mate Abbas who was sitting next to me in the front passenger seat kindly translated for this here ignorant white honky’s benefit.


Funnily enough the fakir who runs the whole tow-truck winch and pinch rort told me that he wasn’t him either when I gave him a bell this evening. Lucky I’m not a paranoid conspiracy theorist hey sportsfans, otherwise I may just be suspecting that the manager of the tow-away-morning sickness-suffering sheila’s sedans and extort them to stump spondoolies they don’t owe scam outfit – who, in a call made about 15 minutes before (also captured on audio) I had craftily tangled up in the web of lies that he and his offsider had variously spun to the Bead Twirler and I during the course of the afternoon – might just have speed dialed the Brissy Towing’s bullsh*t-artist and thief in chief’s iPhone and given him the heads up the butterfly had sprung from the cocoon and was intent on outing the silk-spinning spineless creatures preying upon the good punters of the gee-gee loving Ascot Village and beyond.

The thief in chief in question is a fella named Mahmoud Abu-Ziad – also spelt Abuziad – who tends the crops on his 4000 square meter lifestyle property at number 12 Carter Road, Munruben in the nether land south of Brisbane and North of the Goldie from which the dodgy as all f*ck Logan City council collects the rubbish bins.

And guess what lovers of justice and barely believable symmetries?

He’s the same bloke who hit the headlines a few years ago after his company towed a paralyzed stroke victim’s car prominently displaying her disabled parking permit from the car park of a Fortitude Valley shopping center car park just a few years ago.


At that time the avaricious loose with the truth lecher was running his law-breaking rorts under the banner of a company going by the Confucian sounding name of We Tow You, but he soon abandoned the Kung-Fu brand in favor of the misspelt Brissy Towing title, presumably due to the bad press that We Tow You was copping left right sideways and center in the press and on social media.

We’ll get back to Mr Mahmoud Abuziad in a moment, but if you can’t wait that long to hear more from him why don’t you give him a buzz on (07) 3297 1565 and say that you want to ask a few questions about the business practices of a car-thieving c*nt like he.

And while you’re at it give the not-so-good Doctor Sharma a ring at home on (07) 3862 8482, ask him how large a sling he’s copping from his contractual love-in with Abuziad and tell him that he’s one too.

After all this pair of mendacious parasitic con merchants publicly list their phone numbers and addresses, so clearly they are just waiting in anticipation for your call.

Back to the towing of the stroke victim’s car, but before I do let me tell you a little story about a lobbyist named Damian Power, who readers of this outstanding website will probably know better as the Branch Stacker, my one bosom buddy at whose wedding attended by luminaries of the lowlands such as Kev the Rat Rudd I humbly served as best man, or a rose and rampaging rooter mired in a muddy swamp of insipid sexless thorns as the Bead Twirler so likes to put it.


The Branch Stacker, who is as dodgy as all f*ck – he was for an extremely profitable time the chief spruiker for the arch conman Hong Kong Tony, which tells you all that you need to know – and an arch homophobe to boot back in the days when he was trying to gain union influence and I had some used to drive me to have coffee all over Vegas, despite the fact that I hate peasant picked beans and hot water with a passion.

Sociopaths don’t give a bugger about what others like or dislike however, nor do they pay even scant regard to the parking needs of others. It’s all about them and their singular focused egos after all, and the Branch Stacker proved it by parking in No Parking spots every time he had the opportunity, often driving past vacant free parking zones in order to get his weird kinky kick by pulling up and perching where the signs said he should’t.

On an intellectual level I understand this breed of psychosis, but on a personal level I reckon blokes like Power are just power-parading whackos. Not that whacko that they risk being towed however, for the Branch Stacker always took care to park in a spot which was inaccessible by tow trucks, which I guess made the chronically insecure and jealous of his high-achieving brother bimbo in bikini’s bandit feel like a winner, even though his lot in life is kissing pernicious half-bent politicians arses while his brother rakes in the riches sitting on the publican’s recliner at the Norman Hotel drinking Pina Colada’s and condescendingly pattering to the ripped off punters while watching his poker machines spin and win.


I guess parking dodges and parasitic business practices must run in the one-time Powers Brewery beer baron Bernie’s nephew’s veins, because guess who later bought – and sold within 2 years at a near 100% profit to the company he had not long before gifted a windfall when he sold them the prime South Brisbane TAFE site on the chief after his political donations to the LNP were rewarded by being personally selected by Can-Do to head one arm of the ‘sell everything that the mug punter owns to our mates’ razor gang -Brunswick Central, the shopping center from which the stroke victim’s 4-wheeled source of independence was a couple of years before snaffled by Mahmoud Abuziad’s mob under the cloudy cover of night?

James bloody Power, the Branch Stacker’s brother and fellow father’s trust fund beneficiary, that’s who.


Is that simpatico or what sportsfans? It’s a bloody small town Brisbane isn’t it, and who the hell would have thought that my investigation into the unlawful snatching of the bride’s low-rent limousine would lead me here? No-one, that’s who. Or no-one who didn’t believe in the inherent old school tie and the Tory political party sling and undercover quid pro quo old school tie tradition that is anyway.

But Branch Stacker’s and Pokie profit-reapers aren’t what this true crime tale is all about, even though they are for your author a highly amusing by-product and diversion. No, this story is about bottom-feeding swindlers without a shred of conscience who break the law and in the commission of their crimes break pregnant girls and stroke victim’s hearts too.

A pox on all their houses.

These scum of the earth swindlers day of reckoning before the law soon awaits.

Next up – How the crooked car-park crooks are breaking the law, and why you should make a complaint about them to the police.

The Crims Running the Tow-Truck Cartel That Kidnap Honest Punters Cars and Hold Them to Ransom are About to Learn All About Hell and How Switched-On Sportsfans Can Bring Down Brazen Extortionist Spivs as an Irate Archie Leaps From the Leather Couch and Launches the Spring Butterfly Offensive

As regular readers and thin-skinned defamation launchers with an inability to cop a sledge know I don’t have any assets. Not a single bloody one. I’m as skint as St John the Baptist, although I prefer medium rare steak and spuds with my honey, not locusts.

However her indoors, who I affectionately call the Bead Twirler and who paints pretty pictures and designs flash gardens rather than writing controversial tales of untoward behaviour has assets. Two of them – a perfect pair in  casino parlance – cost me her a fortune, although is was money very well spent and don’t you worry about that.

Another of her assets is her car, an aged and wrinkled but much loved family member which – given my propensity for falling off cycles and cracking bones, my inherent distaste for obeying sign-written directions from strangers and wasting my precious dwindling hours stationary at traffic lights, coupled with the anxiety condition that is exacerbated by being confined and in crowds – is our only mode of travel other than than the Adelaide Street on the end of our ankles, when they are not broken as a result of flying six feet in the air from the saddle of a Malvern Star.


The Twirler uses her four-wheeled pride and joy for such mundane tasks as transporting her cancer-stricken father-in-law (me old Da) to chemotherapy sessions and doctors and hospitals and the like, and transporting The Captain (formerly known as the Sprog until her appointment as head girl at the swish institution to which we pay exorbitant sums each quarter in five and ten cent pieces) to school so that she might get an edumacation and be smarterer than her Dad, and to drive our other daughter the one-time Tattooed Teen, who is no longer a teen and now pregnant with our first grandchild (that hot bird with the bump’s not my kid – I’m way too young!) to do all the things that chicks up the duff need to do in order to ensure that the little tummy-kicker’s brought out into the big wide world safe, well and smiling like a sportsfan who’s landed the First 4 in The Cup.

Yesterday the twirler drove the fat-gutted father’s cash guzzler to a couple of those bun in the oven type appointments – an ultrasound and a blood test – and then the pair decided to use a wad of the assets that aren’t Dad’s and meander down to Racecourse Road at Ascot for a skinny-milked coffee or two and a swish as feed.

Pickle me grandma was my first thought when I heard the news. Racecourse bloody road! Millionaires row. Yuppieville. Twenty-two dollar hamburgers with beetroot an extra 3 bucks. Five dollar cans of Golden Pash. What the hell were the pair of them thinking? That Dad had left his wallet full of Mum’s fifties on the coffee table while he lay snoring on the couch, that’s what. I can only pray to the punting Gods that Kevvie and the boys from the Bunger weren’t down at headquarters watching Strike the Stars go through her afternoon track work paces (she’s too slow to keep up with the other gees gees in the morning gallops) or I’ll never bloody live it down.


But fortunately my hysteria was misplaced, for miss bun in the oven had simply developed one of those cuckoo expectant mother’s cravings and become obsessed and possessed with a yearning for donuts, and so the missus and young preggers trundled along Brisbane’s streets in the wobbly four-wheeled chariot until they arrived at 160 Racecourse Road, home of their favourite cocoa bean and iced sugar-soaked sweet-tooth’s delights  Eatataliano, where they pulled into the parking lot provided both for circular artery- blocking frisbees with holes in the middle and for more calorie conscious customers of one or more of the donut-free establishments in the small corner block of stores.

Lo and behold though the minute they arrived the boob feeder to be became overcome with nausea – serves her right for hanging out in Ascot with the hoi polloi I say; the donuts are far better at Rays Bakery in Geebung and half the price at that – and with nary a signposted dunny in sight at 16o Racecourse Road the Twirler had no option but to whip her across the road to a septic spew parlor so that the eldest offspring could hurl up her guts, much as her mother used to do with regular monotony all those one score and one years ago when she looked like a 21 year old Jenny From the Block rather than the 42 old Ms Jennifer Lopez she does today, albeit with bigger bonza bra-fillers.

Well the kid with the kid inside was technicolour yawning for about twenty minutes and what’s a loving Mum to do other than either pinch her wallet and run, or stand outside the dunny waiting, and being a soft sort of sexpot the Twirler of course did the latter. Silly cow, we could plonked the pups cash on Winx in the Cox Plate and escaped old age by catching a plane to Paris with the winnings, but she’s a sucker for love, Archie and her kids is the Twirler, and so there outside the door of the porcelain throne she patiently stood until the fruit of her loins who had forgotten to take her daily dose of no-nappies-needed meds a few months ago and then engaged in the pleasures of the flesh with the fine fella fascinated by her frangipani scent finally emerged.

Without any further delay, but I am sure with much ado, the molten-hot sorts promptly popped back over the road and purchased a pair of donuts, both touching the wood on Eataliana’s counter as they simultaneously said ‘don’t tell dad’. They took a couple of bites on the run – the poor dears were famished and the budding breast-feeder’s insides empty after her marathon morning sickness spew session – but before they could sit down to finish the job of putting on an extra pound or two the pink icing on the hollow ring sparked a sudden yearning in the Twirler to go ga-ga, goo-goo over the ultrasound images of the little angel inside and like mother like daughter the glowing youth agreed, and so off to the car they skipped to grab the scanned baby selfies.

But much to their surprise the car wasn’t there.


Some tanked-up wanker had winched it up and towed it while the banged up young beauty was yawning in the bowl.

After a million tears, and a world full of wailing, and the person at the end of the number on the sign that promised that donut-chomping sportfans were welcome to park their Peugots in the lot opposite the track had hung up on them without revealing the current whereabouts of their car, my two lovelies came to their senses and did what any clued up wench would do in similar circumstances.

They dialed a butterfly.

And now those responsible for leaving them pregnant, crying and absolutely abandoned in the wastelands of Ascot are about find out what happens to a bunch of callous uncaring c*nts when they do the wrong thing by a Bunger boy and leave his much-loved lasses and his forthcoming grandchild stranded in the street. Hell hath no fury like an Archie scorned, don’t you worry about that, and if you need confirmation just give The Lawyer Who Couldn’t Cut It In Private Practice or the Child Molester Cover-Up Merchants from the Anglican Church a call and I’m sure that they’ll set you straight.

To date no punter has ever run and won a case against the con merchants operating the ‘tow an unsuspecting sportsfan’s car from a shopping centre car park’, but that’s simply because most people are cowered by the crooks craven refusal to release their cars from their far-away locked up and dog guarded yards and, more importantly, because Archie Butterfly has never taken one before.

But as of the opening of the courtroom registry doors in the morn that’s all about to change, and if the bandits holding the Bead Twirler’s vehicle to ransom are bemused about the big-boobed breath-taker’s refusal to accede to their extortionate demands to hand over a brick of notes in exchange for the auto they’ve illegally appropriated, well let me tell you tomorrow they will be wondering no more.

The tow-truck racket’s about to be blown wide open and the criminal racket’s going down.

So buckle up and enjoy the ride.

And if you see an old bloke who looks like George Clooney trudging along the road to town make sure you stop and give us a lift hey?




Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am – The Human Rights Commissioner Walks Straight Into a Rupert Right Hook, the Sack and Maybe Even Criminal Charges – You Shouldn’t Tell Porkie Pies to the Senate Professor – And You Sure Shouldn’t Let Your Country Down

Regular readers of this eraticaly produced and at times inane website will be aware that I stand in the opposite corner to my fellow mug punter Hedley ‘Doubting’ Thomas on the issue of the abolition of the race hate laws contained in section 18C of the Human Rights Act, because I have written about it often enough to send them into delirium.

It’s a crook campaign that Doubting’s leading on behalf of his Jerry Hall pawing proprietor I reckon, driven by the smashing copped by one of Murdoch’s main men – the brain dead aardvark Andrew Bolt – when he wrote a poorly reasoned and vitriolic diatribe in which the wannabe Howard Stern essentially said that if your skin is white you can’t be black, which seems on the surface eminently rational, but is in fact a load of bollocks and an inherently racist one at that, and let me show you why.

Your humble correspondent – moi – is borne of Irish and Scot stock, and underneath the myriad of freckles and moles that is the curse handed down from my melatonin-deprived ancestors my skin is as white as freshly fallen snow.

On the other hand my missus – who I fondly call the Bead Twirler during the day, and a hot skanky coconut by night – is as black as the Ace of Spades and looking mighty damn fine with it too, it being her Polynesian lineage that stretches back at least half a millennium and probably thrice as much again.

The Twirler and I have sired two fillies out of the three times we have had sex in the past two decades – believe that Gorgeous and I’ve got a harbour bridge to sell you son – and one of the foals is dark chocolate and the other lily white and afraid of the sun.

Now back in the apartheid days in South Africa our family would have been torn asunder and the Sprog and I with the white skin would have been forced into one ghetto and the Tattooed Teen and the Twirler into another, and sorrow would follow us for the rest of our living days.

But here in the Wide Brown Land we know that such a crazed distinction based purely on skin colour is absurd and an abomination, and by virtue of pieces of legislation such as the Human Rights act we neither permit such perversions to occur, nor do we accede to idiots such as the parent at Rockhampton South Kindergarten calling my brown daughter a boong while smiling at my white daughter either.

You see, we have section 18C of the Act to protect us from such ignorant yet extremely hurtful abuses of an Aussie based on the irrelevant colour of their skin rather than the critical content of their character, and if you don’t believe that being abused and treated differently simply because of your pigment hurts like bloody hell, then please come and have a chat to my 21 year old big girl who cried a million tears at the time and burns like a bonfire still at the racist insult thrown at her by a pig ignorant racist adult who ended up on his arse – no it wasn’t me, I didn’t lay a finger on him Your Honour, and gee it’s a shame the Twirler destroyed the video tape otherwise I could prove it – all those long years ago back in the days when the world was wide and I wasn’t, and my skin was as smooth as a baby’s bum rather than as riven as a reptile’s.

It means a lot to me and my mixed race and multi-coloured family does Section 18C, and I’ll stand and fight for it as long as I draw breath, even if it means throwing literary punches at my deluded mate Doubting, for as an Aussie you’re obliged by birth, blood and breeding to stand up not only for your own, but also for the battler who can’t stand up for themselves, and whether their skin is yellow, black or white doesn’t matter a jot and by any standards of common human decency never should.

Now a poor little website opinion piece writer like me has his back against the wall when up against the might of the Murdoch media empire, and if it weren’t for the fact that most of Rupert’s rabble are kids who wouldn’t know sh*t from clay – and that those who do are on a salary and under Uncle Rupe’s strict riding instructions – then I’d be in more trouble than Harry Morant when the pommy bastards pinched him for purging the enemy.

So the last thing the defenders of 18C like me need is for Murdoch’s hyperventilating lynch mob to be given a free kick and a walk up start.

But that’s exactly what the Human Rights Commissioner retired Professor Gillian Triggs – whose PhD dissertation was all about Australian sovereignty in Antarctica; perhaps this explains why she has such difficulty dealing with people – has done by firstly blinking in the glare of Rupert’s stare and saying she’ll weed out bullsh*t complaints to the Human Rights Commission (presumably those made against News Corp staffers) rather than allow the customary due process of the law to follow its course, and then in a brain snap of epic proportions walking into a Senate Inquiry driven up by Murdoch’s mates in the Big House and lying through her f*cking teeth.

What a bloody idiot!

All that the fool Triggs has managed to achieve is to set back the logical argument for the retention of section 18C by a trillion light years and almost certainly cop the sack from her job in the process, and if so then good goddamn riddance to her too because anyone who willfully and deliberately misleads Parliament deserves everything that they get, and anyone who is  that goddamn stupid to breach the Geebung Code by panicking and fessing up to their porkie pies at the first sign of trouble is simply beyond help, and Kevvie’s been shaking his head for the past 24 hours and is shaking it still.

She’ll be lucky if she’s not referred for contempt our Emeritus Professor, and I for one hope to hell she is because there’s no place in the public service for quasi-intellectual egoists who deliberately convey untruths to the elected representatives of those they are employed and paid to serve – us, the humble average taxpaying Australian punter.

And when their mendacity has the direct knock-on effect of threatening the safeguards against racist abuse afforded by Section 18C and enjoyed by Aussie’s such as my wife and daughter then may hell have all fury upon the hubris-ridden half million dollar earners who for reasons of false pride and ego willfully elect to immolate their obligation to stand before a Senate inquiry and tell the bloody truth.

A firestorm’s about to engulf Gillian Triggs, don’t you worry about that, but in the heat of the deserved assault on the Emeritus’ fitness to continue to hold her job it’s important to keep your eyes on the wheat rather than the chaff and remember that despite Rupert’s reporters inevitable froth and bubble the soon to be former Human Rights Commissioner is not the keeper of section 18C, but rather just another public servant gone wrong.

Murdoch’s mob must not be allowed to send the cause of equality and a fair go back to the 19th century with Cecil Rhodes by succeeding in their entirely self-driven campaign to get square for the sanctions quite rightly placed upon their man of vitriol and squeal Captain Thunderbolt, for who runs this bloody country, a deserter who abandoned his Aussie citizenship in favour of becoming a Septic Tank, or the good women and men of the multicultural and many-hued Wide Brown Land?

You know the answer as well as I do sportsfans, and it ain’t Rupert.

Goodbye Gillian, don’t come back.

Racism sux, Australia give it a whack.

How the Hell Did a Moron Like Larry Pickering Ever Win Four Walkley Awards? – How Did a Sheila Punting a Faulty Thesis Ever Win One?

Larry ‘the Lizard’ Pickering is one of those odious ego-driven characters with a smidgen of talent who strike it lucky and for a time strut the public stage like vainglorious peacocks before disappearing back from whence they came, emerging only occasionally over the years just so that we folk of a certain age can all ask ourselves how the hell we once thought he was interesting and perhaps even a smidgen clever.

In our defence the world was a different place back then, or suburban Australia was anyway, and we were just kids sucking in what we saw around us and, more particularly, on the magic idiot box which believe it or not in those days was the size of  tank, didn’t have flat screens – you only got them at the drive-in; don’t ask kiddies, I’ll explain at another time – and boasted just 4 channels, which may be incomprehensible to the youngsters raised in the internet age where choice is a right not a privilege, but boy oh boy did those 4 numbers on the dial pack some punch or what?

TV had it all back in my day laddies and lassies, those were the golden years and don’t you worry about that. Racism, homophobia, and all manner of vile bigotries; sexism, chauvinism and the exploitation of women; homophobia, prejudice and bigotry of all varieties. You name it mid-1970’s Australia had it, and to put what now seems the nation’s appalling attitudes to almost everything into context, don’t forget that the White Australia had only officially been abolished a brief couple of years before.


This dark chapter in the Wide Brown Land’s history – an era when Racey, Leif Garrett, David and Shaun Cassidy and the Bay City Rollers ruled the charts – was fertile ground for a racist, misogynist homophobe to make a name for himself.

Enter Larry Pickering onto the national stage.

Pickering fit the bill to a ‘T’, and for a whirlwind decade his star rose like a rocket, his cartoons sold like chocolate-coated strawberries to a calorie starved couch-surfing sloth, . and the dough rolled in like the breakers at Bondi on a stormy day.

But of course f*ckwits are as f*ckwits do, and before too long Pickering’s hubris rotted his brain and he left what he was good at – obscene caricatures aimed at a base idiot audience – and became a horse trainer. Thanks to his friendship with John ‘Singo’ Singleton, who made his mate his stable trainer, Pickering had some early success, culminating in his horse Rising Fear running a place in At Talaq’s 1986 Melbourne Cup, but before too long it had all gone to custard, as most things that Pickering touches do, and the RSPCA were chasing him for animal cruelty after he simply upped and walked away from his stables leaving a gaggle of hungry and thirsty thoroughbreds behind.


The one time mate of the rich, powerful and downright crooked disappeared from view for decades, emerging only from time to time in the centre of one financial scandal or another, before popping back up in the public eye a few years ago as the author of the eponymous news and current affairs website the Pickering Post, which he used as a platform to promote his odious anti-Muslim world view and garnered thousands of followers even more stupid than he in the process.

So then here we are, and the morons who subscribe to Pickering’s form of prejudice hang on his every word, and take all that he spouts as gospel truth.

The suckers.

Leopards don’t change their spots, and neither has Larry, and so these days in addition to his stock in trade of penning obscene sexually charged and sexist cartoons, Pickering prints his rants and declares them the spot-on-the-mark prescient ruminations of a man more in the know than anyone on the planet.

It is of course untrue, and Pickering is nothing more than a garden variety moron with a criminal bent who happens to also have a talent for drawing and an aversion to fact checking, and nothing spells it out better than his recent ‘I know something that you don’t’ article declaring Hilary Clinton to be a lesbian who once had a passionate affair with Yoko Ono.


Boom, boom, boom, boom! Lesbians, Asians, ‘Lefties’, and women all in the one story. All that was missing were a few Muslims and a bucketload of truth, for you see Pickering lifted the story and its accompanying obviously photoshopped picture – without attribution of course – and sold them to his readers as the inside scoop from a man who knows.

There’s only one problem though: the original story is a fraud, an invented piece published on a satirical website by an author taking the piss out of Donny Trump’s outstandingly atrocious attitude to women.


And Larry fell for it hook, line and sinker.

The sad thing is not that Pickering published this tripe – one would expect him to – but rather that once upon a time this sad clown was winning Walkley Awards for supposed journalistic excellence.

Bloody hell, the next thing you know they’ll be handing out gongs to sheilas who hard sell conspiracy theories about illegally constructed quarries being responsible for floods that kill a dozen people.

What’s that Mum?


Since When Was it the Job of the Federal Court to Save Employer’s From Their F*ck-Ups By Unilaterally Altering Legally Binding Contracts? – In This Life There’s One Law For the Rich, and One For the Poor – And Don’t You Worry About That


We’ve heard a whole lot lately about the evil CFMEU, that devil of a union that puts people before profits and tries its damnedest to keep construction industry slaves safe at work so they can arrive home for dinner breathing and in one piece.

Day after day the totally and utterly maulers of the impartial Murdoch media regale us with sensational tales of union officials swearing on building sites – goodness me Decorous Dora, what’s the world coming to? – and demanding that safety officers leave their comfortable padded chairs in their air-conditioned offices during rainstorms to make sure their soaked and sodden employees can continue to get drenched in the name of productivity in relative safety and not fall 21 flights to their deaths.

It’s just goddamn outrageous what these clowns from the cartel get up to isn’t it Ursula?

No darling, not the fellows from the union – they’re the good guys. Didn’t you read about those poor chaps who died a preventable death at Eagle Farm racecourse a few weeks ago? Or the three innocents slaughtered when an unsafe wall on a construction site a couple of years ago? Or the hundreds of others who’ve lost their lives at work over the past decade?


It’s Murdoch’s maulers I’m talking about. Why don’t they act in accordance with the media ethics that journo’s once held dear and put some balance in their stories? You know luv, give the punters both sides of the story and tell them why the rough-edged chaps from the union are having a red hot go at the bosses?

I tell ya darlin’, the games crooked and the fight’s fixed. And even worse it’s not just Malcolm the Magnificent, keeper at right-arm’s length of Abbott, and his buddy Rampaging Rupert, the Viscount of Viagra, who are throwing king hits at the permit-carrying cloth cap chaps.

Why, have you seen this latest outrageous bloody decision from the Federal Court? No, no, no, it’s not like Murdoch’s maulers reported it, no not at all.

Please, let me explain dear. You see there’s this major building company called Hutchinson, Hutchies to those in the trade, and yes you’re right sweetheart., they are the ones some people claim corruptly dealt with Dave the Dog , but that’s another story to be told at a later stage.

For the moment what you need to know dear is that Hutchies have been around 100 years, are one of Australia’s largest construction companies, employ 1300 workers and a whole bunch of contractors more, and have a HR team that would fill the Melbourne Cricket Ground, provided the hirers, firers and KPI setters stand shoulder to shoulder.

The long and short of it is that this outfit are no novices in the industrial relations department, and have been going toe to toe with union mob since before St Paul stopped playing pickpocket for Satan’s sinners, and began making workplace agreements with the Bolshie’s shortly after Paul copped a lightning bolt to the head and in his confusion began to believe that the wide brown land was built by a bloke who subsequently made every sheila on the globe out of the un-grilled rib of an arsehole named Adam and switched sides to the God Squad.

Well, just a couple of days after that lovely Michelle Payne won The Cup last year the sharpies from Hutchies management struck a bargain with the CFMEU that soon after became an Enterprise Agreement. Now this agreement is legally binds the union, the company and its workforce to an agreed set of terms and conditions that govern their employment. In simple terms it’s a contract, struck fairly and without duress by the parties, and endorsed by a majority vote of the Hutchies workers.

Ho hum I hear you say, but hang on just a minute, because the boss’s bargaining guru’s f*cked up regally and agreed to this provision reproduced below.


Can you spot what’s wrong with it?

Yes, no, maybe?

Well let me tell it to you straight: the idiots from Hutchies had agreed to allow the union to pull all the workers off the job and hold an unlimited number of four hour meetings during each and every shift. All the chaps in the cloth caps had to do was provide the Hutchies bosses with written notification that they intend to hold the meeting before they kick it off – it could be a single second before the whistle blows, there is no timeframe whatsoever specified – and Bob’s everyone’s Uncle.

Except of course Hutchies because all of a sudden they had a bit of a tiff with the union over an unrelated matter and the next thing they knew the crafty coves from the CFMEU started invoking their legal contractual rights and before you knew it there were union meetings being held left, right and centre and if there’s any justice in the world a HR honcho’s head should have been last seen rolling down Queen Street with a senior manager kicking it all the way.

The score was CFMEU 1 – Hutchies NIL, and union officials were seen smiling all over town and the Hutchies bosses were running around in circles like headless chooks and those with hair still left were tearing it out in huge clumps and wondering what the hell they could do.

Resolve their dispute with the union, cut a deal with the union in the traditional manner, and move forward with fairness holding hands and singing Solidarity Forever should have been the simple answer. A contract was in place, it had been signed freely, and if Hutchies had totally and utterly stuffed up well that’s just the way the ball bounces and despite the Tory’s trickle down con job there’s always a winner and a loser in the game they call Capitalism, and in this case it was Hutchies.

That should have been the end of this story, and would have been too, but unfortunately for the average working punter when the Labor Day marchers shout ‘Fair Work, Fair Work, What’s the Score?’, the answer is always that there’s one law for the rich and one for the poor, and that proved to be exactly the case here because the supposedly independent building industry umpire – the dreaded ‘Fair Work’ Building Industry Inspectorate decided that they didn’t like their favorite team – the bosses – copping a hiding, and decided to take decisive action to give their golden haired boys a boost.

So before you could say Dyson Heydon’s a Dinosaur the one-eyed Erics from the inspectorate who do two thirds of bugger all about pinching bad bosses had stripped off their yellow umpire’s shirt, thrown on a Hutchies jersey and abandoning any pretense of impartiality had jumped in boots and all and applied for orders preventing the CFMEU from enforcing their clearly written legal right to hold the union meetings described above.

The fix was in. The fix is always in.

On 29 September the Federal Court rode roughshod over the legally binding contract and issued interim orders (temporary orders until the case can be heard in full) restraining the CFMEU Queensland Branch from holding meetings more than once a week at any given site and compelling the union to provide 48 hours notice to the employer of the meeting time and date. Forget the fact that Hutchies had agreed to something completely different, the Federal Court knows how to deal with these grubby unionists.

It got worse though, a whole lot worse, because the orders not only applied to the Queensland Branch of the union but were extended to apply to all branches of the CFMEU Australia-wide, despite the fact that unchallenged evidence was led that each State branch of the union operated independently and autonomously. That of course wasn’t good enough for the half million dollar a year earners sitting on the judges bench, they know better and declared that these unionists couldn’t be trusted and would run amok across the wide brown land if the unilateral alteration to the terms of the contract was not applied to the CFMEU here, there and everywhere, including presumably Mars.

The matter went back to court last week for review, but sweet bugger all changed, with the judge this time declaring that the meetings the CFMEU had been holding on Hutchies sites were not genuine union meetings and that the new restrictions on the union’s activities would stand until the matter was fully heard in early 2017.

Of course no definition of what was, and what wasn’t, a genuine union meeting was proffered or declared, although it should have been a moot point anyway because there is no delineation in the contract between different types of union meeting, and nor should there be for since when were bosses allowed to determine the validity of a workers meeting when they had locked into an agreement giving the union carte blanche?


The Easter Island Statue – Big Malcolm Fraser – famously opined that life wasn’t meant to be easy, which was easy for a blue-blooded member of the squattocracy to say, but not so easy for working class people to swallow. What the man who mysteriously lost his trousers in a Memphis hotel forget to add though was that if you are a construction worker life isn’t meant to be fair either, and don’t you worry about that.

It’s all water under the bridge now, and the union how has its hands tied until the full hearing next year, ostensibly at least for there is always more than one way to skin a cat, even if the feline hides behind the public servants who appear to be its greatest supporter and pass the burden of bashing the union to you and me, the poor old sucker of a taxpayer.

I guess it’s exactly as the Nobel Prize winner – if that is he accepts the Dynamite Alfie – Uncle Bob was correct: justice is a game. And the workers always lose. But hey, do you reckon if I ask nicely and tell them that I hate unions the Federal Court might vary my credit card contract?

Ha ha ha ha ha.

It Ain’t Me Babe – Why Bob Dylan Doesn’t Even Meet the Qualifying Criteria to Win a Dynamite Alfie – And How the Murdoch Minions of the Mainstream Media Walk Around Town With Their Heads Up Their Arse

When Archie was just a wee young boy growing up in God’s Own Land – Geebung – he and his contemporaries were sold a massive pup. They were told that the Rhodes Scholarship was awarded to the brightest spark on the Wide Brown Land’s block, and deceived into believing that the chaps – no we’re not being misogynist, the Nobel Committee are, for only 6 odd percent of recipients over the past century or so have been sheilas – who were gifted the free ride to Oxford courtesy of the largess with stolen money of Cecil Rhodes, colonialist, bigot and Father of Apartheid, were the creme de la creme of the Aussie emerging intellectual world. And so we all heard the words ‘Rhodes Scholar’ and immediately thought ‘ooh-ah, Einstein ya!’

It was all bullsh*t. The actual criteria for copping a Cecil was, and is, as follows:

  • literary and scholastic attainments
  • energy to use one’s talents to the full
  • truth, courage, devotion to duty, sympathy for and protection of the weak, kindliness, unselfishness and fellowship
  • moral force of character and instincts to lead, and to take an interest in one’s fellow being



Sounds good doesn’t it sportsfans? But it’s a more than a tad subjective isn’t it? After all, how do you define energy? Or talent for that matter. How do you judge moral force of character? And what duty is the scholarship applicant supposed to be devoted to? Who the f*ck knows, that’s the bloody answer my friends, but if we take a peek at some of the winners we’ll get a clue.

Kim Beazley.

Now wasn’t he smart? So smart that he lost an Akubra full of elections, and so energetic that weighed 140 kilo’s standing nude on a set of crook scales. And let’s not talk about the moral force of character of a character who flip-flopped on nearly every policy position he dreamed up in the chocolate shop, the most notable being his fatal – both to his political ambitions and to the lives of desperate human beings – backflip on asylum seeker policy after he copped a shellacking from Little Johnny in the Tampa election because he couldn’t articulate a case for kindness, compassion and common decency toward his fellow man.

Then we’ve got the Rabbit, Tony Abbott, a joke of a bloke if ever one was born, and one of the few Liberal PM’s to be kicked to touch by his own team. Kindliness? Fellowship? An interest in his fellow beings? The Rabbit? He of Ditch the Witch? You’d have to be goddamn kidding wouldn’t you?

Of course the third leg of the trifecta is John Dyson Heydon, the silver-spoon sucking neanderthal former High Court Judge who infamously ruled that it was okay for a bloke to rape his wife, because after all she is his missus and it’s a man’s world is it not? Or at least it is in Dirty Dyson’s world. Cecil Rhodes would have been proud of him.

And hasn’t the clown named after a vacuum cleaner’s Royal Commission been a raging success? A million and three recommendations for prosecution and what’s he scored? A gambling addicted Tongan from Canberra who was in bed with a corrupt businessman that got off scot free, and 2 mid-level managers from a super fund who’d never done a thing wrong in their lives other than show loyalty to their mongrel dog of a boss who sold them down the river when the heat was on and he wanted to save his own gutless arse.

Top work Dyson – gee you Rhodes Scholars are smart.

Yep, our generation was dead set sold a lemon in regards to the Cecils, and it’s exactly the same for the current crop off cobbers and coquettes when it comes to the Dynamite Alfies, otherwise known as the Nobel Prizes.

Now for those not in the know Dynamite Alfie was an arms dealer named Alfred Nobel who tooled up who knows how many armies with enough bombs and blasts to eradicate a dozen nations, and was consequently responsible for hundreds of thousands – possibly millions – of deaths around the globe.

Old Dynamite Alfie didn’t seem to give a rats arse about the carnage he engendered until his brother died and a drunken newspaper editor published the wrong eulogy – Alfie’s – instead of the dead blokes, and in this erroneous last post took a big stick to the bomb merchant and left the world with the crackerjack quote ‘The Merchant of Death is Dead‘, even though of course he wasn’t.

Our man Alfie didn’t like the label one little bit, and it made him sit up and realise that he had a bit of reputational damage to repair if history wasn’t to remember him as an out and out lowlife c*nt, and so he acted like an out and out lowlife c*nt toward his rellies by cutting them out of his will and leaving the lot to fund a bunch of awards delivered in his name, the Nobel Prizes.

Yes sportsfans, Dynamite Alfie was a fraud and the simple fact is so are his awards, and I reckon the combination of truths is the reason that the thrillin’ Bob Dylan isn’t returning the Nobel folk’s calls, and they are forced to pretend that he’s busy on tour and probably either doesn’t know yet or hasn’t got time to call them back .

Pull the other one dingles, ‘cos it jingles we say.

Truth is that Dylan’s a well-read and knowledgeable man, and would know full well about Dynamite Alfie’s background, and as the man who wrote and performed the seminal anti-war song ‘Masters of War’ we would guess Uncle Bob probably ain’t that pleased to cop an award from a warmonger, even if the bloke is long dead and rotted.

It’s likely too that Dylan – unlike the vast majority of mainstream media types here and around the fast-spinning sphere – is au fait with the will of the warmonger, and thus with the Statutes of the reputation-redemption foundation he left behind.

That will, and the consequent rules that flow from it, state that the Nobel Prize for Literature will be awarded to the person who in the preceding year (emphasis mine) shall have produced in the field of literature the most outstanding work in an ideal direction.

Um, can anyone tell me what new and outstanding prose or verse Golfin’ Bob has produced and published in the past year? Someone? Anyone?

Nah, you can’t, cos all he’s put out is an album of Frank Sinatra covers, the 2015 release Shadows in the Night; another album of covers of his favorite American songs titled Fallen Angels, which was released this year; and in a few weeks he will be releasing a box set of live recordings from 1966 unsurprisingly titled The 1966 Live Recordings.

Each them we are sure are excellent productions, although we are guessing because we gave up listening to new Dylan albums a decade or more ago, but they all have one thing in common: not a one of them qualify for consideration as Nobel worthy under the rules laid down by the founder Dynamite Alfie himself.

So you can put down your glasses sportsfans and stop reading the rants and plaintive declarations of Dylan-love from ignoramus’ like Andrew Bolt who froth at the mouth and start spewing nonsense without checking even the most basic of facts.

Punters here’s the guts of it, delivered to you exclusively from the Zillman Waterholes bar at the Bunger:

All the arguments about Dylan v this writer or that writer or the other aren’t worth a hill of beans in this crazy world where peace prizes are funded by bomb makers and awarded to killers, for the simple bottom line is this.

Uncle Bob Dylan’s a Dynamite Alfie ring-in who doesn’t even jump the first hurdle by even qualifying to be in the running to win the award, full stop.

That amigo is all she wrote, and the hot air you are hearing and reading is all just conjecture, baffle and bullsh*t, and Uncle Bob knows it.

Hey, you know what, he’s as sharp as a tack that Dylan fella. Maybe he can swap the Dynamite Alfie for a racist Cecil!



Sometimes It’s Words That Paint a Thousand Pictures – A Child Sex Abuse Victim Shares a Couple of Pages of Her Teenage Diary and Shows Us a Whole Bunch of Pieces of Her Broken Heart

With or Without You by U2 is playing on the radio as I lie on my thin mattress in Mum’s run down Housing Commission apartment with the time-worn carpet and paint-peeling walls that I call home, or have at least for the past few months since Mum brought me home from my Grandma’s place in New Zealand, the safe haven of a kind of love and care and kindness that I’ve never known, the sanctuary my mother deported me to after I made love to the stranger who grabbed me on the pedestrian overpass as I was walking home from cadets and held the huge knife against my throat and called me a cunt and punched and stabbed and kicked me and then told me he loved me as he came in my eyes with the tip of his blade pressed against my carotid artery.

I stand and close the eyes that the knife man filled with his shame, and I dance and sway and imagine that I’m high up on a lush green-grassed mountaintop, dressed only in a white scarf that is swirling around me, blown by a cool breeze, and there I am just 17 years old, old old old, older than the wind and the trees and the world around me, old ever since my grandfather came into my room when I was four and gave me sweets and told me that he loved me and that I was special and that he wanted to show me his love and turned me on to my stomach and said I was his favorite, and for the first time in my life someone was talking to me and caring and then the horror began and I thought it was what every kid did with their Pa.

After he was finished and part of me down there felt ripped apart and I was bleeding like the blood would never stop, and I went to Mum and she told me to harden up and let the him do whatever he wanted because he was a good man, and had bought us our house and was paying for her trip to Europe, and that I was a sinner and had to know pain to find God, well what else was I supposed to think? I tried to ask Dad too, but he had been drinking since the night before and was lying on the floor asleep with this foul-smelling swill around him and Mum said it was the Devil staining him for not obeying Grandpa’s commands, and I didn’t want to go to hell so I went back to his room instead and closed my eyes and dreamed of the mountain.

And now all these years and all these f*cks and all the blood and the guilt and the hurt and the pain here I am on the mountaintop again, dancing, swaying in the spirit, dancing for my Father, whose not my real father because he died with a bottle of scotch by his side and a cord around his neck and stockings strangling his scrotum, and they found him in the beat under the church a few days after the knife man had told me he loved me in the park, and even though I was still in the hospital waiting for the stitches to heal the holes the knife had made in my side my sister came and told me that when the police took his body away Dad was wearing his mum’s nightie and a wig and was holding weird magazines full of filth and lust, or was until he died anyway and then they fell to the urine-soaked floor and drowned as he choked, and then she told me that it was all my fault and took my keycard from my wallet and then she was gone and when I woke up again it was two days later and the nurses dresses were so white and the ward lights so bright I thought just for a moment that I must have been in heaven and then I looked down at the scars and knew in an instant that I was still in Hell where I belonged.

I close my eyes and now I’m lying on my back in the cool grass and there’s no man around pawing my body and putting his fingers and his private parts that he calls his love maker inside me, and I just listen to the wind softly swirling around me and I worship for a while. I think about last year and I just know God is good and his glory all around me because let me tell you please by all means compare the difference between then and now.

Oh yeah, before I forget, last Monday in English we had this oral.

This was the question:

In the form of an interior monologue (a character speaking their thoughts aloud with no intended audience) or a dramatic monologue (a character speaking to a non-responsive audience) present a character that is facing a major conflict or turning point in their life, or who is physically and/or psychologically isolated from others. Although your character is fictional, make the situation represented in your monologue as realistic as possible.

And this is what I wrote:


I wake up in the morning …. I open my eyes …… and I think …….what am I doing?

Why do I bother? Why?

It’s like this massive waste of time. I just ….. I want to leave.

I really do. I don’t want to be here.

I wish to go away. I wish it every day.

What more do I need? There is nothing here.

How can I explain?

I see nothing ahead, just words…..words…..words.

If words were liquid they’d be rushing in; but instead here we are more silent, more powerful than any word could ever be.

But then it’s gone and I just want to go to sleep.

I want to sleep, but still I feel that I’ve already been asleep, that I’ve been sleeping for a long time, and that while I was asleep the world changed, everything changed, everything, everyone changed and they all forgot about me.

No-one told me. No-one told me anything. Someone forgot to tell me. Everyone forgot to tell me.

And now I’ve missed out …. I’ve missed out …. I’ve missed out.

I don’t know …. I don’t know …. I don’t know.

I just …. I guess ….

I want to go to sleep again.

I want to close my eyes and feel the sun upon my skin just once while I lie safe in the arms of the earth.

It’s like I’m walking on a journey, a real long one, and now I’m tired, really really tired and I can barely keep my eyes open, but there’s nowhere to lay down and go to sleep because the grass is filled with writhing vipers and …..

I’m so tired. I don’t ….. I don’t …. I don’t want to be here.

I can’t ….. I can’t ….. I can’t cope.

My head.

It feels like it’s going to explode.

I can feel all this pressure inside.

I can’t handle it.

I try not to cry, but sometimes it becomes all too much.

I stop anyway.

I want to go to sleep and not wake up.

Can’t you see? I don’t think you understand.

It’s different for me.

You’re different.

It’s easy for you.

And besides, what do you care? No-one cares about how I feel. No-one.

You walk down the street and smile. You’re lucky, so lucky.

It’s not so easy for me.

‘It’s not easy for me at all.

You don’t have to wake up every day and have a memory that pounds inside your temple like an Aztec drum as the virgin is dragged screaming to the sacrificial altar and reminds you exactly who you are and where you’ve been and what they’ve done to you.

You don’t don’t understand. You don’t. You can’t, even when you think you do.

Nothing is that simple. If it was, don’t you think I would have found it?

I don’t care anymore anyway. I just want to go away. I want you to leave me alone.

Leave me alone.

Leave me alone.

Like you always have.

I’m going to be sick.

I want to die.


A few people in my class said my monologue was good.

I hope they noticed the change in me. I’m getting better.

The teacher said I had a vivid imagination, but needed to work on my presentation, and put more emotion into the reading of my text.

I excused myself, saying I had my period and needed to go to the toilet.

I walked out of the classroom, down the hall, through the door and out onto the street.

The leaves were falling softly upon my tears as I walked slowly away from school for the last time, telling no-one that I was never coming back, but knowing it in what was left of my once hope-filled heart.

This is me, this is all of me. What was, and now is gone.

It’s Autumn 1991. Soon the USSR will break up, and the people of its constituent states will have their old lives back, and can be themselves again.

I pass a house and can hear a radio blaring out loud, and it’s Kylie and she’s singing I Should Be So Lucky.

I remember first heard the song in the year that the knife man kissed me and told me that he loved me, just as my Grandad had as I lay silently on my stomach with his hand over my mouth so no-one could hear me moan for all those years before.

I shiver in the afternoon as I watch the slow setting sun turning light into the black of dark.

I’m tired. I’m so, so tired.

God is good. That’s what Mum says anyway as she tells me each night that I need to repent for my wickedness and my sins. The wickedness she watched through the open door as Grandad made love to me when I was four, and kept making love to me until the knife man came and drained the sin-stained blood from my veins.

I need to sleep, I’m so tired, I just need to sleep, so I’ll end now.

God is good.

Just ask Mum.



The Gable Tostee Dilemma – He May Be an Absolute C*nt – But Does That Make Him a Murderer?

It’s the fundamental question isn’t it, and the one that will land the odious Mr Tostee in or out of jail for the term of his natural life, either peering up through bars at the little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky or alternatively stripping off his designer label t-shirt and roasting his steroid raised muscles turned to fat under its blazing sun.

That Tostee is an absolute c*nt is beyond debate. His actions and the words he recorded by his own hand speak for themselves.

But does his odious nature and his despicable deeds make him a murderer? That’s the conundrum facing the jury, and it’s a puzzle that I for one don’t believe for a minute can be resolved beyond any reasonable doubt.

Which if I am right of course means that Tostee walks.

And if he does then narcissistic young Gable should get down on bended and thank God and Allah and Buddha and Krishna and the Universe and the Stars and – most particularly -the ineptitude of the Queensland Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions who in my estimation have laid the absolute wrong charge against him, and thus guaranteed the deluded wannabe Romeo the opportunity to swim in the deep blue sea once more, unless of course a posse of Maori gang-bangers catches up with him first.

How on earth the DPP came up with a thesis that by locking his clearly violent and alcohol-crazed one-night-stand on the balcony he was then responsible for her attempting to climb off the edge, and in a bare instant falling to her death, is anyone’s guess, and intelligible only to those who dreamed the charge up.

Sure there is a causal connection between the two events, but it is no more pronounced than the causal connection between the poor girl’s intoxicated state and her ill-fated decision to clamber over the ledge and try to end up who knows where?

There is very little – if any – evidence that has been presented that convinces me that she was in fear for her life at the hands of Tostee. In fact if anything the converse is true – it was he who was the victim of unwanted violence perpetrated by the deceased, not she afraid of him.

This whole case, just like the prosecution brief against alleged McCulkin trio murderer Gary Dubois (more of that later), is an absolute balls up in my humble view, and although the pundits who hear 30 second sound grabs on the news will be well and truly up in arms as Tostee walks free with a smirk and a smile through the Supreme Court doors, the inevitable ‘Not Guilty’ decision of the jury will be the correct one to the charge the DPP decided to lay.

And all the while a wee Kiwi lass lies cold in her grave, and her parents tears will continue for years to scorch the sodden earth.

Tinder: Dry, flammable used for lighting a fire.

There’s a tragic salient lesson in that for us all.



Oh F*ck – The Venal, Dirty Rat’s Gunna Run For Mayor of Vegas!

Bad smells seemingly never go away, and thus Kev ‘The Rat’ Rudd and his ever-loving spouse – who wouldn’t love a bloke who gave you the inside run on a business that would make you a $100 million? –  and his thwarted ambition and lightly dented ego deign to return to the mud-stained river city’s fair shores, no doubt with the intent to condemn us all to eternal suffering as The Rat strides up on the next step of the ladder two rungs from where he stood, in his own mind at least, just a few weeks ago.

His dream of world domination detonated, and his delusive desires doused – until dinner time anyway – the Rasputin-like retard and T-Rein are back and living high above the waterway once coursed by Oxley, Petrie and a couple of hundred thousand indigenous paddle-wielders who don’t have prisons, police barracks, bights or poor as buggery far-flung housing commission suburbs bearing their name. And it’s Vegasoids who all of a sudden have probable cause to fear the bigger than a Biggera Waters bride’s bouffant-sized unquenchable ambition of the idiot, and wonder where it all will lead.

There are only 2 possibilities really. The first is a leather chair in the House of Broken Dreams alongside such interconnected luminaries as Del, the Beefcake, an ambulance driver and a childcare boss or two, Trad the Terrible, the Swinging Dick, Daft, Peanuts – the man who loves Logan but refuses to live in the slum, and how’s your missing in action ministerial ambitions going son – and of course the accidental and totally incidental Premier and silverware seller Assetstacia Pannacotta herself.

No doubt the sycophantic Chris-Mitchell kiss-the-big-banana’s-ass-and-then-lick-it-dry lickspittle literary descendants of the mainstream media will at some stage salivate on the front page about the prospect of The Rat mounting the State stage, but take the tip from old Archie here and now, it ain’t gunna happen, cos Kev would have to kiss up to more than a few folk he’s pissed on in the past to get a pre-selection, jump over all the above-mentioned ambitious Peter Beattie acolytes, and after that that actually work in a team, which is a step totally too far for the noxious weed of a narcissist from whichever angle you choose to look at it.

Which leaves just one option open, Plan B as in Brisbane. The prime seat in the principality, perched upon the highest mountain in the cane-cutter’s capital, with a view all the way from Cootha to the coast.

The mayoralty.

The venal Rat wants to rule Vegas.

And with a hundred million bucks in the bank and a whole lotta hubris in his hand-basket, who’s gunna stop him?

God save us bloody all.